One Second Of Love
by Insideimfeelindirty
Summary: AU. Former idol contestant April is struggling with poor record sales and a cancelled tour, she needs a publicity boost to salvage her career. Notorious bad boy Jackson is in need of a reputation overhaul before his scandalous life ruins the family name. Thrown together to drum up media interest, the lines between business and pleasure start to blur.
1. AprilWho?

**A/N: so i've been thinking about this little idea for a while, I'm not sure it's up to much yet, but I still somehow ended up making the first chapter really long.**

**Also, I apologise for the swearing, I always end up making my OC's really sweary. I will rinse out my mouth, I promise. Felt like I had to make it an M rating purely for that reason from the start, but I will get to the other reason later on.**

**Let me know what you guys think about it, I'm lost without you!**

**You know I own none of the characters, right?**

* * *

><p>She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, the backs of her legs sticking to the leather of the sleek sofa. She regrets her decision to put on such a short skirt, her thighs feels raw and sore against the grain of the leather and the seam on the edge is digging into her uncovered skin. The skirt is an attempt to impress, an attempt to convince her manager that there must be another option for her. Her hemline is meant to signify that she can be the artist they all want her to be by her own accord, that she has regained her confidence and is ready to get out there and do what she was born to do.<p>

"Is this absolutely necessary?" she pleads, hopefully in a confident, I-can-do-it-all voice, as Meg enters the room.

Her manager stomps over and slumps down on the chair next to her, barely lifting an eyebrow at her short skirt. Meg's legs are covered in their customary black trousers, no bare skin against leather putting her off her game, just lots of layers of black fabric and black hair in stark contrast to the white leather interior of her office.

"You know the situation, April," Meg dismisses her, emphasising her name with thinly veiled condescension. "You are two albums into a three album deal, and though everyone knows that second albums can be tricky, the sales are pretty much a fucking disaster."

She says it in a way that leaves her no room to doubt that she is personally being blamed for this failure. Two years ago the world had been at her feet, the record label had so much confidence in her that they'd signed her for a lengthy and unprecedented contract, she had been bolstered by public adulation and buoyed by her first love. Just as quickly as she had risen to fame, she had come crashing back down.

"Ever since that Fuzz or Buzz or whatever his name is dumped you, people have lost interest in you, it's as simple as that. Your album barely made 45 000 copies in the first week, April, and as of this morning your tour is cancelled."

Meg's words slash into her and deflate the brief confidence the skirt had provided, she automatically casts her head down, a bad habit she thought she'd gotten rid of.

"Baz," she mumbles, hands wringing and eyes glazing over.

"What?" Meg interrupts her tirade to eye her quizzically, her tone sharp and impatient. "Speak up!"

"His name is Baz," she repeats, voice clearer, calmer.

"Whatever," Meg dismisses her, waving a ringed hand in front of her face as if she was batting away a fly. "My point is you are not interesting right now, and you need to be."

Meg gets up and marches over to her glass desk, rifling incessantly through the mess of papers. Suddenly she hammers an unpolished finger down on the intercom, static crackling and hissing.

"Alex?!" Meg snaps, impatiently leaning over the chaos, brow furrowed and tangled locks hanging in front of her face. "Get the fuck in here!"

"Is this really the only option, Meg?" she attempts, hoping to distract her from tearing into her long-suffering assistant.

"A relationship made you interesting the first time, darling," Meg sighs, leaving all affection out of the endearment as she moves across the plush carpet and back into the chair next to her. "A relationship will make you interesting again."

A tentative knock on the door alerts them to Alex's presence, clutching a thick file in his hands. Her heart already goes out to him, nervously awaiting his stripping down.

"Did I not fucking tell you to leave the fucking file on this table, Alex?"

The calm in Meg's voice is more sinister than her usual shouting, part of her really regrets convincing her to give up smoking, abstinence is not a good look for her.

"Sorry Meg," Alex moves quickly across the room, deposits the file on the edge of the coffee table between her and Meg and scutters out of the office so quickly he almost trips over his own skinny legs.

"Useless," Meg mutters under her breath, grabbing the folder and extracting a photograph. "Speaking of which, get ready to meet your new boyfriend."

She accepts the photograph being placed in her hands and scans the somewhat familiar face in front of her. She searches the sparkling eyes and the wide smile for some clue as to where she recognises him from. It finally clicks.

"Him?" Her incredulous tone doesn't even begin to cover the outrage that is building up inside her. This is going to be way worse than she first thought. "Meg, you can't be serious!"

"I'm as serious as the cancer you promised me I wouldn't get," Meg retorts, face stony and set in determined lines. "I'm not fucking tinder, April. This isn't me setting you up with someone I think you'll really get along with because you deserve some fucking happiness in your life again. I'm not a fucking unicorn shitting rainbows, I'm a business woman and this is a business deal."

She scans her memory for information on the smiling man in the photograph in her hands, but everything she comes up with is bad, it's all bad. She remembers a string of high profile relationships, a bunch of unsavoury stories in the gossip columns, partying, philandering, broken hearts. He is her worst nightmare and she cannot for the life of her imagine how he is supposed to be her salvation.

"Look," Meg offers, spotting the distress on her face, voice softening just a touch. "This is a supply and demand kind of situation. There aren't a string of eligible bachelors out there that we can pick and choose from. He is in a situation where he needs a deal like this too, his PR said something about a family business or something, honestly I stopped listening after two seconds. That woman could have told me I'd won the lottery and I'd be falling asleep."

"Meg, he's a playboy!" she argues, desperation seeping into her voice in spite of her best efforts. "How is that helping my image?"

"People won't see it coming, it will be intriguing, it will provoke interest, ok?" Meg humours her, though clearly losing her patience with being a reassuring benefactor. "You'll be the true love that tamed the bad boy, ok? People love that shit."

"How will it even work, though?" she tries, knowing she won't win this, or any argument with Meg. "I mean, what if no-one cares?"

"That naive farm-girl act was cute on American Idol two years ago, April, but I know you know better by now," Meg scoffs, putting her firmly in her place. "This whole industry is a construct, it's a game, you just have to know how to play."

Her heart sinks at the inevitability of it all, wondering how following her dream meant having to give up control of her life so entirely.

"And this is really necessary?" she ventures a final time, already resigned to her fate, looking to sink the knife in deeper.

"At this stage you owe the record label money for the expenses that went into making the second album and cancelling the tour, April." And there it is, the band aid is finally off. "The record label will make their money back, one way or another."

She shudders at the thought of what another way might mean for her, and faced with the possibility of a life living with crippling debts she knows there is no choice.

"You need this April, you need him and he needs you," Meg continues, already dismissing her and motioning her out of her office. "You'll meet with Jackson Avery tomorrow, let's get this ball rolling."

* * *

><p>She begrudgingly moves through the glass and steel lobby of the office building, stalling for time. Today her legs are covered in her more customary skinny jeans, her day will not be derailed by short skirts and sore legs. She feels infinitely more confident than yesterday, more herself, more Meg-proof. More ready to accept her circumstances.<p>

She pushes the elevator call button still holding out hope that by some divine intervention it will not come and take her upstairs to her manager's office where her new fake boyfriend will be waiting. She sighs deeply when the doors open immediately. She accidentally on purpose forgets what floor she is going to, pressing every single button from one to eighteen to win some time. She's only postponing the inevitable, but since she knows just how much Meg loathes tardiness it's the only small vengeance she can exact without consequence.

She straightens her back and examines her reflection in the elevator's mirrored interior as the doors close behind her. She runs a finger through the bouncy red curls framing her face. She may not be interesting anymore, but at least she still has damn good hair. She turns away from her reflection just as a long, slender hand grabs one door through the gap and pushes the doors wide open. Her face falls as she recognises the man entering the lift not as her saviour and further stalling tactic, but as her antagonist, her reason for stalling, her beard.

"Oh, hey," he starts, recognising her too. "You're April Kepner, right?"

His voice is softer than she imagined, but his smile and his sparkling eyes are exactly as flirtatious and disingenuous as she expected.

"Yep, that's me," she retorts, not able to force a smile in return. "Nice to meet you, Jackson."

She grabs his extended hand and shakes it as firmly as she can manage. His hand is smooth and cool, just like him. He raises an eyebrow to her as he notices all the lit up buttons on the elevator operator panel.

"I couldn't remember which floor Meg's office is on," she explains, feebly and not at all convincingly.

"How about there?" He points towards the brass plate next to the 18th floor button. "Meg Dunne & Associates, Talent Representation. Might that be the place?"

"Yeah, would you look at that..." she laughs a short, abrupt laugh, despite herself.

The doors open to the 1st floor, predictably without anyone entering or exiting the elevator. She can feel his eyes on her as she presses the close doors button, practically feels his smirk as she presses the button frantically trying to speed the process up.

They make it to the 6th floor before he speaks again.

"So, are you up for this?" he starts, forcing her to face him.

"Oh, absolutely," she retorts, trying and failing to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "Arranged relationships are the only way to meet decent men in LA these days."

The elevator doors open for the 7th floor but as she turns to hit the button to close the doors, he grabs her shoulder and turns her to face him again.

"I'm serious," he says, sans wide smile and eye sparkle. "This won't work unless you commit to it."

There is a slight edge to his voice, a subtle hint of urgency she wasn't expecting. He holds her gaze, eyes silently searching hers for compliance, eyes still impossibly intense even without the sparkle.

"I'm in, ok?" She wishes she could keep the petulance out of her voice, it's not very polite, but he caught her off guard. "I need this too."

He nods briefly, rearranges his face back into smooth lines and a charming, but blank expression. He finally lets go of her shoulder, but she can feel the imprint on her skin all the way up to the 18th floor.

As the elevator doors open a final time Alex is nervously skipping in the lobby, waiting to bring them into Meg's office.

"She's been in there alone with that woman for half an hour," Alex warns her quietly as he ushers them into the room.

"Fucking finally, April!" Meg exhales, managing to look happy and pissed off simultaneously.

A tall, impeccably dressed woman crosses the room to shake her hand, and instantly strips any confidence her skinny jeans had provided her with earlier.

"April," she trills, breaking out into a wide smile that somehow doesn't reach the rest of her face. Botox, she realises. "So nice to finally meet you. I'm Indie, I represent Jackson."

Indie's face is motionless above her eyebrows, but her make up is immaculate and the hand in hers is flawlessly manicured and elegant. She catches herself staring at Indie's ample rounded breasts swaying softly beneath her cream silk shirt, quickly dropping her hand and diverting her gaze. Indie throws Jackson a dazzling smile as she moves back across the room and positions herself on the leather sofa, blending in perfectly with all the white.

"Jackson Avery."

She turns slightly to see him introduce himself to Meg, charm on full power, sparkle back in business.

"Pleasure," Meg snaps, obviously not finding any pleasure in the meeting whatsoever. "I'm going to call you Jax, ok?"

"Actually, no one calls me that," he attempts, speaking to Meg's already turned back.

"It's shorter," Meg concludes, signalling the end of whatever discussion Jackson thought they were having and motioning for them to sit on the smaller sofa opposite Indie. "Talk them through it, India."

Indie smiles away Meg's condescension and launches into the master plan, mostly addressing her but fluttering her lashes in Jackson's direction intermittently. It all sounds straight forward, 6-month contract, turn up at each others' events, be seen together as much as possible, pretend as much as possible.

"It's not rocket science," Indie finishes, expensive jewelry glittering as she folds her hands around her knee. "Turn up together in places you know you will be photographed and look like you're in love, the rest will take care of itself."

Her stomach drops at Indie's words, carefully glancing to her side to gage Jackson's reaction, who seems impossibly cool and pragmatic about the whole thing. He looks completely at ease in the expensive surroundings, comfortably reclined against the white leather, one arm casually slung on top of the sofa somewhere behind her. It's one of the reasons she has sat rigidly upright for the past twenty minutes.

"Oh, relax April!" Meg's loud voice interrupts her churning mind. "It's not as if you have to sleep with him!"

She can feel her face reddening and her head bowing down as Jackson shifts uncomfortably next to her. India laughs a little too brightly, flashing her perfect dentures and her lash extensions in Jackson's direction.

"Now get the fuck out of my office, lovebirds," Meg spits, motioning towards the door. "We'll do a status update next week."

As she stands up from the sofa she catches Jackson winking at her conspiratorially. Great, he's a _winker_.

"Oh, and do me a favour and take cashmere mafia here with you," Meg shouts after them.

"She's a gem," Jackson mutters quietly in her ear as they wait for Indie to catch up. "I'll call you tomorrow, set up a date."

She shudders slightly at his words, partly because his lips are so close to her ear she can feel his breath, partly because she's wondering how many times a week he whispers those words into other women's ears.

* * *

><p>She scans the restaurant for a familiar face as she enters, it's only nine in the evening but the room is already crowded and buzzing. The room is all dark wood and dimmed lighting, a big marble counter is showcasing the many white clad chefs underneath old-fashioned orb lights and on the opposite side of the room the wall is filled to the ceiling with wine bottles. The hostess shows her to a table for two close to the big windows facing the street, crisp white table cloth and single candle twisting her stomach into knots. It's been over a year since her last date, and the realisation that this is all for show is nearly enough to make her bolt straight for the door.<p>

She has to give him credit for the restaurant choice, however. It's much less sleek and sterile than she had expected from him, much warmer and more romantic than she thought he'd go for. Of course the small group of waiting paparazzi outside quickly reminds her what they are her for, to get to work, to put on a performance. None of the photographers had even bothered raising their cameras for her when she arrived.

He makes her wait for over ten minutes before he saunters in, full of confidence and infuriating calm. He shoots her a brilliant smile, generous on the sparkle, before he leans in and kisses her cheek sweetly. She is taken aback by the intimacy of it, she has to blink a couple of times for her brain to process it before she comes back to herself and manages to return his bright smile. He's already playing his part, already in character as her new, loving boyfriend and she better get in on the game.

"Am I late?" he quizzes her breezily, apparently not overly concerned that he is.

"I'm always on time," she responds, trying to not let her face show her irritation. _You're in love, April, in love goddamnit!_

"Like you were on time to Meg's office yesterday?" he smiles sweetly, grabbing her hand across the table.

"Almost always," she snaps back through gritted teeth and her increasingly stiff smile, folding her fingers into his and resting her free hand on top their interlocked hands.

"Good to know," he laughs, leaning in over the table and holding her gaze steadily. "Next time we'll drive together, it looks better."

Her urge to get up and punch him in the face is abruptly subdued by the arrival of their waitress, which gives her an excuse to drop his hands and his gaze. The waitress runs through the specials and takes their drink orders in a peppy, smiling manner, barely taking her eyes off her dinner date. She orders a large glass of wine and tells the waitress to keep it topped up. This night is going to require some false confidence at the very least.

"So what's the plan?" she starts when the waitress is out of earshot. "To sit here and bat our lashes at each other until someone decides its worth a picture?"

"Pretty much," he says, still so impossibly comfortable with this whole thing. "But they won't take photos until we leave, too much glare from the window."

The way he seems so at ease with situation and the way the mechanics of it all seem so familiar to him makes her wonder if he's done this before. She's about to quiz him on it when their drinks arrive, waitress still entirely focused on him and blatantly ignoring her. His eyes are firmly fixed on her as the waitress asks if they're ready to order, and before she has a chance to grab the menu and reel off one of the italian names he does the most frustrating thing in the world and orders for both of them, still without tearing his eyes away from her. The waitress leaves with a broken smile, but without noticing the angry glare on her face.

"Did you just…_order_ for me?" she hisses, not able to conceal her outrage. "What if I don't like meat?"

"Relax, sweetheart," he coos, clearly unable to see that the endearment enrages her further. "Your management sent over a whole dossier on you, I know what you like."

He leans over and grabs her hand again, gives her his best love struck expression, reminding her gently that they are still playing games.

"What, you didn't get one on me?" he enquires when she doesn't respond.

She did get one on him, but it was full of press clippings of him on dates with celebrities of both the A- and Z-list variety, photos of him stumbling drunkenly out of nightclubs, a cameo in a salacious music video by some artist she'd never heard of, and a clip of him on a long-forgotten reality show being his usual smooth and cool self. Nowhere did it mention anything real about him, no food preferences, no hobbies beside serial dating, only a short sentence about him being the heir to something called the Harper-Avery foundation. It had made for some seriously depressing reading.

"All I got was a bed post covered in notches," she finally responds, taking a liberal sip of her wine.

"Right," he smiles, a little less sparkly, eyes flickering away from hers for a moment. "Don't believe everything you read, April."

He seems to struggle internally for a moment before amping up his sparkle factor again, leans over the table again and pulls her hand up towards him.

"Let's be friends, ok?" he pleads, lips suddenly pushed up against the back of her hand. "We're in this for the next six months, so let's just make the best out of it."

She sighs deeply, feels herself bend to his more than reasonable logic and painstakingly rearranges her face into a soft smile.

"Ok," she concedes, leaning in towards him and holding his gaze.

When the food arrives the waitress is giving her a death stare like she has never seen before and outside she can see the photographers quietly murmuring at each other and nodding in their direction. Turns out what he ordered for her was exactly what she had been planning to order herself.

* * *

><p>She fluffs up her hair, straightens her jacket and checks her make up in the restaurant bathroom, pulling her shoulders back and lifting her chin up, running through her mental checklist she normally uses to prepare for a performance on stage. She tells herself that she can do this, that she is ready for this, that this will be a successful night. She can feel her will growing and her confidence soaring. The smile on her face comes easily, she is prepared.<p>

"Time to see if this thing has legs" he mutters quietly in her ear as he grabs her hand and escorts her out of the restaurant.

As the restaurant doors open the group of photographers turn simultaneously, a couple of cameras go up instinctively. The first flashes of the cameras are blinding, and she immediately casts her head down, but the strong hand squeezing hers steady her and when the next wave of flashes rains over them she manages to keep her head up and to find her smile again.

They walk the 20 meters to his waiting car at a reasonably slow pace and by the time they make it half way every single photographer is taking a shot. They all shout his name, they all know him and they've all been down this road with him before. Suddenly she hears her own name being called and automatically looks over in the direction of the voice. It alerts the entire posse and all of a sudden they all know her name, it ripples through the crowd like the constant noise of the shutters.

They finally make it to his car and shut the doors to the shouting and the clicking of the cameras, but the flashes are still going off.

"I guess it kinda worked, huh?" he laughs turning towards her as he starts the car.

"Yeah! I guess so," she smiles back, buzzing from the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "So this is why you told me to take a cab here?"

"Well, that and I figured you'd probably want to drink," he smirks, pulling away from the curb and the paparazzi. "I know what you like, remember?"

"Right," she nods, stealing a quick glance at him as he focuses on the road.

"Let's see where we are tomorrow," he concludes, eyes briefly flickering over to her as he negotiates late night LA traffic.

As she lets herself in to her small apartment after he's dropped her off, her heart sinks again. Tonight was the first date she'd had in over a year, the first time any man had spent more than ten minutes straight talking to her, the first time in even longer someone had held her hand. The saddest part was that it had been insincere, the interest he had in her was professional, the intimacy they had shared was false. It suddenly dawns on her that while this deal is still on the table, she has no chance of starting anything real.

* * *

><p>By the end of the following day the verdict is in. The photos of the two of them appear on a handful of gossip sites, her mentions on twitter are up exponentially and Meg even deigns to call her in person to tell her that she told her so and that she's always right. By the time she's ready for bed Jackson's already texted her to set up another date.<p>

She is yanked out of her sleep by her phone ringing. She sleepily answers without checking the caller ID, but is suddenly awake when she hears the panicked voice on the other end.

"April, check your mail," Alex urges, over the unmistaken sound of Meg's angry, booming voice in the background. "There's a hashtag problem."

She hangs up and impatiently waits for her email to download. Alex has sent her a link to a tweet from one of the most notorious gossip columnist and bloggers in the business and as she reads on her palms get sweaty and her stomach drops. There is a photo of her and Jackson in his car, turned towards each other and smiling, beaming at each other. Her eyes are sparkling as much as his, and if she didn't know any better she'd say that it was a photo of two people in love. But the photo is clearly not the problem, the tweet is. In less than 140 characters this woman has summed up her current predicament with painful accuracy.

"Jackson Avery spotted out with new love. #AprilWho?"

591 retweets and 426 favourites tell her why Alex had been all dramatic about it. Beneath the link Alex has written in bold letters "the hashtag #AprilWho? is now trending."


	2. Japril

**A/N: Thanks for all your lovely reviews guys! I normally go dark and angsty, but I needed to write something a little lighter this time around.**

**Time to find out what Jackson makes of the whole thing:)**

**Please let me know your thoughts, I value your feedback above anything.**

* * *

><p>The phone rings incessantly in his pocket as he struggles to put his key in the lock with one hand and balance a coffee and an unhealthy breakfast in the other. Once he's safely inside and out of danger of inflicting second degree burns on himself he checks the phone, only to confirm what he already suspected. 7.30 am and he's already got three missed calls from her. He ignored her when she woke him up at 5, he ignored her when she interrupted his morning session at the gym at 6.30 and he ignores her again as he wolfs down a croissant and burns the roof of his mouth with his coffee. She has no respect for time zones or call screening.<p>

He jumps in the shower, soothing aching muscles with warm water, stilling his mind with the sound of water rushing past his ears. He closes his eyes and lets the water envelop him for a moment, savouring the privacy of the place where no one can reach him, question him, pester him. He finally turns off the faucet and grabs a soft, clean towel from the pile of identical, perfectly stacked white towels lining one wall of the bathroom.

By the time he's dried off and stepped back into his bedroom the phone is ringing again and he knows he can't put it off any longer.

"Mother," he answers, not bothering to conceal his annoyance.

"Darling! I tried calling you three times already!"

His mother's exuberance does nothing to pacify him, he already knows what's coming, already knows how frustrating this conversation will be.

"I'm aware."

"Well, then you already know I wanted to speak to you about an important matter," she counters, voice already more curt, poised for an argument.

"Let's hear it then," he sighs, racking his brain for what he could have done recently that might have upset her.

"Indie filled me in on the latest press you've been getting…"

"Of course she did," he mutters, mostly to himself.

"As well she should," his mother snaps, never one to tolerate interruptions. "That's what I pay her for!"

"Well, don't worry about it, ok?" he retorts, not able to stop himself from going on the defence. "I'll handle it, it'll be fine."

The line goes silent for a moment, his mother clearly pondering to what extent he is able to handle his own business. When she starts speaking again her voice is calm and serious, almost without any emotion. Her business mom mode is her most frightening mode.

"Jackson Avery, don't for a second think that you're backing out of this deal," she says, not as a threat but as a direct order. "The board are breathing down my neck on this, and frankly I'm fed up with seeing the family name being dragged through the mud in every tawdry gossip column from here to eternity. It's not becoming in the slightest."

"Mother, I know…" he tries, but she's on a roll and barely notices him interjecting.

"Your reputation has done serious damage to the good name your grandfather worked so hard to build, Jackson," she continues, going down familiar paths, reiterating sentiments that lock in the overwhelming guilt he struggles with. "Our investors are asking questions that are getting increasingly hard to answer and every time you rack up another scandalous headline you diminish the importance of the work we are doing. You're chipping away at your own legacy."

She pauses to let her words sink in and they do, they sunk in the first time she hammered them in too. He waits a moment to make sure he's allowed to speak, she commands his respect like no other woman in the world, always has.

"I understand," he starts, knowing he's not going to get away with making excuses. "I'm ready to take responsibility for it all, ready to try and save my reputation, I am, honestly."

He waits for her to respond, but her continued silence tells him they're still not getting to the bottom line.

"I am willing to go along with the steady relationship story line Indie's set up for me," he continues, hesitating a little before arriving at his conclusion. "I just don't know if the girl is right."

"Just stick with something for once in your life!"

The exasperation in his mother's voice takes him by surprise. She is frightening, meddling, overbearing and it's expected, but never angry like this.

"I'm at my wit's end with you, Jackson. Either stick with this deal or come back to Boston and be serious."

She hangs the looming weight of his legacy over him, the unfulfilled expectations, the disappointment, the condescension all palpable through her tone of voice alone. Since birth his path in life was supposed to take a certain direction, he was supposed to follow the course already staked out for him. He was supposed to get his medical or business degree at a prestigious East Coast college, not take a few classes at West Coast party school and loose interest after a year. He was supposed to take his seat on the board of the Harper-Avery foundation or go on to be an excellent cardiothoracic surgeon, not move to LA with his buddies and spend his trust fund on parties and women. He was supposed to fall in line, to fit the mould, to represent and lead, not bring his family name into disrepute. The enormous responsibility presses down on him like a boot on his neck, no matter how far he moved to get away from it, to escape it, his mother can bring him back, bring him to heel, in an instant.

"Mother, I'll handle it," he says through gritted teeth, resigned to her iron will.

He finally gets her off the line, ear and phone hot from the intensity of the exchange. He stares at the black screen for a while, knowing the notifications are still ticking in even though he turned the alerts off days ago. He picks up the phone again, opens the offending app and sees that his suspicions are well founded. The #AprilWho? hashtag is very much still alive.

* * *

><p>He feels heavy as he moves through the throng of people hurrying off to work, oppressive heat already descending on the city, making the clothes stick to his skin and the pavement shimmer with radiating waves. He brushes past suit-clad people, increasingly irritated as he watches them stride with such purpose towards careers and life goals, leaving him behind to grapple with the single purpose he's worked towards; avoiding responsibility. He never asked for it and he never wanted it, just like this reputation overhaul and marriage of convenience that his mother is forcing down his throat. He'd been reluctant from the start, objecting to both the concept and the girl, and had only caved because he had hoped it would get his mother off his back. That part wasn't working out so well right now, and neither was the girl, who clearly wasn't pulling her weight. Getting April to pretend to be in love with him was like pulling teeth, slow and brutal.<p>

He reaches the generic looking office building and rushes to catch the elevator, but the older man already occupying it kindly pushes the button to open the doors for him. _How refreshing._

"Come in, Jackson," Indie purrs as he enters the reception, pink glossy lips revealing a perfect set of pearly whites.

Indie's office is as generic as the rest of the building, sterile and executive in every sense, she looks out of place in her expensive clothes and jewellery, too polished and dolled up to mesh well with the many shades of municipal grey.

"I know you think this is a bit of a fuck up," she starts, the sudden swearing vaguely amusing him. He can tell she really wants to be Meg when she grows up. "But it's just a speed bump, honestly."

"Do people actually know who April Kepner is?" he demands, not easily placated by PR smooth talking. "I mean, is there really any point to this?"

"People know who she is, trust me."

He never trusts anyone who tells him to trust them. Her eyes flicker nervously when he doesn't immediately reassure her that he does indeed trust her, but like a pro the wide smile stays firmly fixed on her face, like it's set in stone.

"This whole thing is on Meg," she starts, allowing her mouth to release the smile so she can feign outrage instead. "That journalist has a big beef with her, Meg basically called her irrelevant and out of touch in an interview a couple of months ago and she's been firing shots at Meg's clients ever since."

He scoffs at the thought, he has a lot of respect for Meg's no holds barred attitude to people as long as he's not on the receiving end.

"Meg's on top of it," Indie rushes to explain, misinterpreting his amused laugh as one of exasperation. "I personally spoke to her this morning and shouted at her until she grasped the seriousness of the situation."

He severely doubts Indie would ever dare to shout at Meg, the most high powered manager in LA, especially since Indie is the most power hungry PR in LA. The very reason his mother hired her was for her hunger, for her obvious need to perform her job to the absolute highest standard, to get the best possible result. He suspects that her need to collect powerful people is the reason she flirts with him subtly, but unashamedly and at every opportunity.

"It's handled," she concludes proudly, as if she's the saviour of the day.

"Is it?" The irritation that has been growing in him all morning is impossible to charm away today. "This whole hashtag issue is pretty embarrassing for both of us. Tell me again why April is the woman for this job?"

"She is the complete opposite of you in reputation terms," Indie explains, fierce conviction in her voice for the first time today. "She's innocent, sweet, naive even. She is girlfriend material, heck, she's even wife material."

"She's not really my type," he interjects, suddenly unsure if they are talking about the public's opinion on April or what Indie thinks should be his opinion on April.

"The public absolutely loved her on American Idol," Indie continues, eagerly leaning forward to make her point. "Even if she didn't win, everyone took her side when her boyfriend dumped her in spectacular fashion."

Suddenly she seems younger, like she's gossiping with a girlfriend, she smiles brightly, eyes sparkling and she forgets to throw him flirtatious glances as she seems to remember the exact details.

"I mean, that Baz was a total douchebag, I always thought so," she adds, almost to herself.

"A bad breakup is why she is perfect for me?" His voice seems to snap her out of her trip down memory lane and back to the question at hand.

"He dumped her for another contestant while they were all on tour together after the show," Indie elaborates, clearly still outraged on April's behalf. "Every night she had to go on stage and perform with both of them, you coming in and changing your bad boy ways for her will make you a hero in every teenage girl's and housewives' eyes."

"If they remember who she is, that is," he feels it's only fair to point out.

"People remember her," she reiterates, determination written in her face and in the small fist she has slammed down on the desk between them. "And please remember that you absolutely cannot be seen with any other women while this deal is on. Cheating on April Kepner would destroy your reputation beyond repair and I wouldn't even know how to face your mother if that happened."

"Don't cheat on the fake girlfriend with real women, got it," he sighs, resigned to the will of a strong woman for the second time today and it's not even lunchtime yet. "Anything else?"

It's starting to feel very hot and sticky in Indie's small office. He's stuck with this, however unnecessary he thinks it is, however unsure of the situation he feels.

"You need to turn things up a notch," she decides, back in PR mode, back in flirtatious mode, lashes batting at a hundred miles per hour. "More dates, more touching, I'd like to see a kiss too."

She says it without emotion, describing the mechanics of what makes tabloid stories happen, but it leaves him conflicted. He will do what is required of him, and he will play his part well. He's used to playing a role, to put up a facade, to pretend, it was his entire life until he moved away to college and it is still his life whenever he goes back to Boston. He will put up and put out, at least seemingly so, but this is so much more intimate than pretending to be interested in budget forecasting and grant distributions. This requires another person to return the intimacy. This requires partnership.

"Ok," he concedes, mind scrambling to distill a conclusion from his internal conflict. "I'm meeting April for lunch, I'll talk to her."

* * *

><p>She is her normal curt self on the short car ride over to the lunch spot he has in mind, somewhere they can be easily spotted, somewhere obvious. She's apprehensive or nervous or something, because she refuses to look at him and from the corner of his eyes he can see her wringing her hands over and over.<p>

"You OK?" he asks, glancing over quickly.

"Fine," she mumbles, in the way that people who are not fine tend to.

She's uncomfortable around him, avoiding his eyes, making as little conversation as possible. From their brief encounters so far he has felt her contempt, her inability to take him seriously, her prejudice against the concept of him. He's never bothered with people who aren't bothered with him, but he's stuck with her, the prospect of dragging a show of intimacy out of her is already wearing him out.

He decides to drop it, busying himself with finding a parking spot instead. He finds the perfect spot, far enough away from the lunch place to give anyone taking photos ample opportunity and time to clock them. As they get out of the car she's still miles away, closed off in some private world of hers he's not privy to. He self-consciously places his arm around her shoulders, which startles her and forces her to acknowledge him.

"Whatever it is, you have to leave it behind for now," he warns quietly, spotting a couple of paps on the far corner of the block. "We're working."

He keeps his hand on her shoulder, doing his part and hoping she came to play ball. He leads her to a restaurant on the corner with rows of small tables outside, perfect for the kind of exposure they're looking for. They sit down at one of the outside tables, settling in on uncomfortable green and red metal chairs. Her vacant stare and hand wringing is back and he decides not to prod her by playing games, letting her order her own lunch.

"I'm really sorry," she suddenly says, breaking the silence. Her eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed, her lip worried in under her teeth. "For the whole horrible hashtag thing, I mean. I know it's embarrassing for you, it's really mortifying for me too."

"It happens," he shrugs, unnerved by her sudden honesty, worried that she will demand his in return. "You can't take these things personally."

He instinctively puts his hand over hers to reassure her, but lifts it again after a few seconds; feeling like it's an intrusion in her privacy. She notices, raises an eyebrow to him as their waitress puts their drinks down on the table.

"This whole thing is mortifying," she explains, small smile on her lips. "The ruined career, the fake relationship, the twitter abuse. This is so far away from what I thought I signed up for."

He gets it, the weight of responsibility is hanging around her neck too. He sees in her the same desperation that's in him, the need to follow her own path, to grasp at autonomy.

"We're both jumping through hoops here," he admits, the conversation with his mother earlier in the morning fresh on his mind. "For whatever reason we ended up here, together, and it's up to us to make this work. I can't do this without you, you have to invest in this, you have to step up."

"I know, I just…" she starts, eyes flickering up at him, hesitation drawing her bottom lip downwards. "I'm just not sure…"

He sees the conflict in her eyes, sees her arriving at the same conclusion he arrived at himself, eyes flashing a silent apology at him. She can stomach a fake relationship, just barely. She's just not sure she can stomach him.

"I'm not my reputation, April," he sighs, running his hand over his head in frustration, pulling up his eyebrows into a frown. "That's just what other people think I am, it's got nothing to do with reality. At least give me the benefit of a doubt before you judge me."

The sudden arrival of their food halts the conversation; letting his last words simmer between them. She can barely look at him, eyes dancing from the waitress, to her food, to her hands. Once they are alone again she picks at her salad and fingers her small necklace while he waits for her to acknowledge him.

"You're right," she finally says, exhaling deeply, still thumbing the small gold pendant hanging above her collarbones. "I haven't given you a chance, I haven't been fair to you, and I know that."

She pauses to look up at him, hesitantly reaching out for his hand across the table, leaving the little gold cross dangling on the thin chain around her neck.

"I agreed to be friends," she follows up, looking a little guilty, a little shamefaced. She looks into his eyes but can't hold his glance for long, resting them on their entwined hands when looking directly at him becomes too much for her. "And I still mean that. I know I haven't acted like it, but I am invested in this."

She squeezes his hand softly and he glances down on her small, pale hand inside his. His eye catches a flash of something reflecting from across the street, he doesn't even have to look up to know what it is. He's got himself so wrapped up in this conversation with April he's all but forgotten why they are here together in the first place.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath, glancing up the road to see a small group of photographers, long, dark lenses pointed directly at them. "I think we kinda screwed up this lunch."

She drops his hand and glances over her shoulder, quickly turning back around and ducking her head down.

"I completely forgot about them," she hisses, shooting him a helpless look. "Do you think it looked like we were having a fight?"

"I don't think it looked like we were madly in love," he retorts, voice a little sharper than he intended.

She hangs her head, guilt back in her eyes, cross pendant back between her fingertips. He sighs and grabs her hand away from her necklace, lacing his fingers through hers. Holding her hand for show is somehow less intrusive to him than holding it out of genuine intimacy.

"Don't worry," he sighs, letting a slight smile cross his lips. "We can get them back. The gossip mongers love a little drama anyway."

She relaxes her shoulders slightly, smiles hopefully back at him. There is a brief moment where her eyes betray some sudden inspiration, and then she leans over the table and places her free hand on his cheek, small fingers slightly splayed across his jawline, thumb tracing small circles on his skin.

"Ok," she says quietly, leaving her hand on his face, stroking him gently. "We'll be more convincing next time."

"Nice save," he smiles, following her example and leaning in closer.

"Thanks," she swallows, eyes dark and unflinching. She slowly retracts her arm, leaving a tingling trail behind on his skin as she breaks contact.

He lets out a small breath, shoulders relaxing slightly. As they leave the restaurant the arm around her back is less self-conscious, and she doesn't shrink away from it or him.

* * *

><p>The opportunity to convince comes a couple of days later. There is an event, a brand launch or something, he forgets the specifics, focused only on the optics it will provide. Indie sets it up, repeating her earlier advice to turn the heat up, to hype up their stock.<p>

He waits in the car for her to come down from her apartment, focused on the task at hand, determined to achieve, to placate, to redeem. She's on time, as promised, big, red curls bouncing off her shoulders, more makeup than he's ever seen her wearing. She gingerly slides in to the seat next to him, tucking her red lace dress in under her legs. The way she dresses is miles away from his usual type, more covered, less obvious, perhaps a little more classy, but he figures that is the point of her, the reason why Indie finds her so perfect for the job.

"You look really nice," he flatters, because he can't help himself, it's like an impulse, like sexual Tourette's kicking in whenever he's alone with a woman. She does look nice, admittedly, but from her slightly horrified expression he can tell it came out sounding like a lame playboy pickup line.

"Um, thanks?" she grimaces, cheeks pinking up, hands suddenly busy pulling the skirt down over her knees.

The fragile ease they found with each other just days ago seems forgotten, derailed by his overconfident reaction to seeing her somewhat dressed up. He quickly flicks on the radio, hoping that some background noise will reel it back in. A tinned, synthetic pop song comes on, too schmaltzy for his tastes so he goes to turn it over, but she bats away his hand at the last second.

"Wait, that's my song!" she says, surprise in her voice. "I'm back on the radio."

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know", he apologises, annoyed with himself for managing to make an already awkward situation worse. Not only did he let her know he has no clue what her music sounds like; he also made it clear he doesn't like it.

"Not a fan, eh?" she scolds, but he thinks he can hear slight amusement in her voice. He tries to feign ignorance, suddenly reading every road sign meticulously as if he has to concentrate really hard to find his way, as if he has no clue what she's talking about.

"Um, well..." he mumbles, still fully focused on the road ahead, though they're only going straight ahead and there's practically no traffic.

"Don't worry, I'm not either," she says breezily, laughing a little to herself. "It's not really my style, it's what the label wanted and I stupidly went along with it."

"Oh, well..." he exhales, majorly relieved to be off the hook. "I mean you have a great voice, obviously."

He attempts to retrace his steps, to gloss over, to dig himself out of this hole, but it sounds hollow even to him. He hates to admit it, but he's an Avery to a T, diplomatic, polite, gracious, even complimentary when there is no reason to be. In essence he is everything his mother expects of him, not that she ever gives him credit for it.

"Thanks, but you don't have to say that just to spare my feelings," she says, betraying a glimmer of inner strength and confidence she has managed to hide well up until now. "I'm just pleased I'm back on the radio. This means we must be doing something right."

The event turns out to be as boring as he feared. After they've done their posing together in front of the step and repeat wall and done the minimum of customary mingling, the party has little going for it. The room is filled with sponsors and plus ones star struck by the scattering of celebs roped in to add some glamour to it all, craning their necks to spot them over the throng of invited press circling around their prey. Aspiring actors dressed in skintight shirts mill about handing out the product that has brought them all here for the evening, a sickly-sweet fruit flavored vodka drink inexplicably packaged in metal tubes that look like they should contain oil paint. He can predict with alarming accuracy how these events tend to unfold, he's been to hundreds here in LA and hundreds more in Boston that seem more serious and credible on the surface, but are filled with the exact same inane chatter and the exact same wandering eyes eager to catch the attention of someone more important.

They cling together, constantly touching, caressing, simulating two people unable to keep their hands off each other. She smiles and nods at a few people she recognises, he does the same, but the two of them are on their own here, locked into their own private bubble, or he hopes that's how it comes across. He's never been one for overt displays of affection in public, but he finds he can tolerate her physical presence more easily because it's not real, because it's an act.

"Do you think this is convincing enough?" she murmurs in his ear, smiling lazily up at him, latched on to his arm.

He scans the room briefly, clocking one or two photographers looking over, but most of them seem preoccupied with attention seeking starlets arching their backs and fluttering their lashes, blatantly posing whilst pretending to engage in conversation with their unfortunate companions for the evening.

"We need to amp it up," he decides, not wanting to go for a bust for the third time running. He spots an opportunity, leads her across the room towards a circular staircase in a darkly lit corner, seemingly private but eminently visible to the entire room. He carefully lifts her and puts her down two steps up so she is at eye level with him. Her face is inquisitive but curious, slightly alarmed but trusting.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he says calmly, facing her dead on.

Her eyes widen in panic, but she manages to keep the rest of her face serene. He moves closer, his face hovering just in front of hers, so close he can smell her conditioner. He struggles to swallow, throat thick and dry in anticipation.

"Wait," she protests, leaning away from him slightly, placing her small hands on his shoulders. "We have to talk about this."

"Let's not talk about it," he sighs, grabbing the bannisters either side of her. "Let's just get it over and done with."

"Ok, ok," she hisses when he leans in again, holding him back. "Just don't use your real kiss on me."

"My what?" he asks, not understanding.

"This is a-a job right?" she stutters, speaking faster as her face gets redder. "So use your work kiss on me, not your real one."

"I'm not sure I have a work kiss, April," he says, eyebrows knitted into a frown, but respectfully backing off, needing her permission, her participation. "I'm pretty sure I just have the one kind of kiss."

"Well, just don't kiss me like you mean it," she tries to clarify, tries to justify to herself, tries to keep up some barriers.

"Ok," he agrees, because there is really no way to disagree with that, and no other way he can appease her.

"Ok, then," she sighs, because she'd rather still be talking about it, and he can see her nerves kicking in.

She inhales sharply as he puts her hands on her waist, bites her lip as she folds her hands behind her neck when he moves closer. Her dress rustles against the fabric of his suit, her breath uneven in apprehension, eyes on his but fluttering her lashes steadily as her last form of defence.

"Got anyone's attention?" he whispers, motioning subtly to the room behind him. Her eyes flicker briefly past his ear and return back to him, nodding imperceptibly.

Her pink lips part ever so slightly as he moves in, the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes, before he shuts off his brain and goes with his instinct. He kisses her softly, moving his lips slowly over hers, but doesn't push into her, doesn't overpower her. But he only has one kind of kiss, and his instincts tell him to pull her closer, to lean into it, to move his hands across her back and grasp at her.

The moment is brief, yet unintentionally intense. When he pulls back her eyes are slow to open, her lips slightly swollen and still parted. He partially expects the room behind him to erupt into applause, but the loud hum of indistinguishable voices and generic thump of bass is as they left it. Her hands are still tightly wound around his neck and his hands are glued to the lace on her back.

"I think they got us," she finally says; voice a little hoarse, eyes dark and entirely focused on his. She can't have looked past his shoulder to check, but he releases her, because they did what they came to do, amped it up, put on a show, appeared together and appeared to be together. They got it over and done with, and now the kiss is over, the work is done.

"I think we were plenty convincing," he mutters in her ear, leading her by the hand back across the room and out the door.

* * *

><p>He stares at his computer screen, opening link after link, one window replacing another. There are so many links he just skims the headlines and the pictures of him and April in various constellations, arms around each other, her hand on his cheek, his hand in hers, his lips on hers, her fingers laced around his neck. According to the headlines they have done their jobs, managed to convince, to deceive. According to reliable sources he is madly in love, through extensive analysis things between him and April are heating up, what is plain for everyone to see is that his bad boy ways have been curbed. His immediate reaction is pure relief, content that his mother will be mollified, that his family responsibilities aren't looming quite as large.<p>

Indie's done extensive work, he has to work his way down a long list of links before he reaches the punch line.

_"I told you it's handled",_ she's written above a link to a tweet from the very same journalist that coined the unfortunate #AprilWho? hashtag. It's a photo he's not seen before, from last night's event, but not one he can immediately pinpoint in time. They're holding hands, turning slightly away from each other, her with a small, slightly secretive smile, him with a big grin that looks directed at only himself. The accompanying tweet reads like Meg herself has dictated it word for word.

_"Breakout Idol-star April Kepner turned up the heat with boyfriend Jax Avery at LA event. These lovebirds look set to be the next celeb super-couple. #Japril anyone?"_

He's about to get straight on the phone to Indie to set her to work on minimising the spread of the hated abbreviation of his name, when he inadvertently clicks on the #Japril link and is faced with an endless barrage of new tweets. Even in his A-list dating days he never had a couple nickname, a portmanteau signifying he is part of a unit, part of a coupling bigger than his own name.

He sighs deeply, puts his phone back down and clicks back to the photograph he failed to place. It finally comes to him, he finally realises that it was taken just moments after he broke away from kissing April, and it makes the expressions on each of their faces even more incomprehensible.


	3. QuarterLifeCrisis

**A/N: Once again, thank you for your lovely reviews and for keeping me going:)**

**For this fic I seem to end up writing really long chapters, which I don't always like reading myself, so I'm sorry if I'm being overly descriptive, I've just got the whole thing so vividly painted in my head.**

**Please let me know what you make of this mastodont of a chapter anyways.**

**Also, major disclaimer... I really have no desire to see JW and SD together in real life, I'm all about their fictional selves really. To me this is still very much about Jackson and April finding each other in whatever world we imagine them in. (Only good thing about that happening IRL would be that their name would be Sasse, which makes me pretty happy). **

* * *

><p>She hides behind big sunglasses, keeps her head down, nervously fingering the napkin in her lap. Being on time in a city that's perpetually late has its drawbacks. She's already ordered a second drink before Meg graces her with an appearance.<p>

"April," she beams, as much as her face will allow, drawing the corners of her mouth up to resemble a smile. To any bystander Meg appears to be smiling politely, but to her Meg seems practically rapturous.

She smiles carefully, bracing herself for some unknown discomfort a meeting with her manager usually entails. She's been summoned, but the fancy restaurant and out of office location of the meeting has made her think that this isn't a simple status update but something far more unpleasant. The lush courtyard dotted with old, gnarled olive trees and tables covered in crisp, white linen is meant to soften the blow no doubt.

"First of all, can I just say fucking brilliant work on the whole fake relationship thing recently," Meg gushes, plopping herself down on the wrought iron chair opposite her, before hassling the waitress to come take her order. "Everyone is really happy with you. Airplay is up, record sales are up, downloads are up, your star is rising again."

She should feel more relieved at that, satisfied that the awkwardness of the past few weeks has amounted to something, but she knows Meg didn't invite her here just to sing her praises.

"Everything is on track," Meg smiles after waving off the waitress, big black sunglasses and big black hair a stark contrast to the romantic atmosphere of the restaurant. She catches herself thinking it would make a good place for a date with Jackson if it hadn't been for the complete privacy and lack of waiting paparazzi outside.

"But..?" she asks, shaking off the thought.

"But, it's not enough," Meg admits, smile faltering. "The record label wants a complete image overhaul, something fresher, a little sexier. A new sound, a new look, the whole fucking thing."

She can feel her face fall, another role to play, more loops to jump through, more pretence. She pushes her plate to the side, suddenly losing her appetite, the gorgeous surroundings doing nothing to soften the blow Meg has levelled on her. The sinking feeling she's experiencing is familiar to her by now, having been her almost constant companion these past two years. Ever since she entered that competition the penny has been dropping over and over, opening her eyes to exactly how naive she'd been to think it was ever about the music, that her talent was enough, that dreams ever come true. Her career thus far has been a series of reality checks, an endless sequence of compromises.

"Sexier?" she questions, feeling sick to the stomach over the implications of that single word. "Is this not interesting enough for the public?"

She motions to her perfectly stylish outfit, voice edgy and filled with resentment. She likes her look today, skinny jeans, cute silk blouse and simple red ballerinas. She's even got a red belt to match her shoes. _Put together_, her mother would say.

"Cute, but bland," Meg says, supremely confident in her all black outfit, sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of platinum blonde and cream coloured silk. "The record label has already set up a stylist for you, they're working on some new songs, it's already set in motion."

"Meg…" she starts to protest, powerless to keep her voice from sounding whiny. Despite her best efforts she has not managed to rid herself of the grating pitch of her voice, the squeakiness that emerges when she is overly emotional, the jarring tone that she tries so hard to suppress so she can avoid the shudders it often provokes.

"Suck it up, April!" Meg interrupts, dropping all pretence from earlier and getting straight to the point. "This is happening, this is the fucking job. Just be thankful that your relationship with Jax has made you interesting enough to even bother with all this."

She swallows hard at the rebuke, reminding herself what's at stake. She swallows down her objections, readjusts her expectations once again and nods imperceptibly. If it's one thing she's been getting used to its taking disappointments in her stride.

"Oh, and there's going to be a photo shoot too," Meg throws in, almost as an afterthought. "It's an exclusive for one of the big weeklies, interview, nice, fat fee, the whole thing."

"Interview, Meg?" she sighs, telling herself it's just one more thing, just one more hoop, stemming the panic that is bubbling up inside. "As in answer questions about Baz? As in answer questions about Jackson?"

"Ah, you'll be fine," Meg dismisses her, impatiently looking around for the waitress, or anyone able to speed up the payment process. "I'll be there, Alex will be there, Jax will be there, calm your tits, ok?"

Meg finally focuses her attentions back on her, having flashed the universal sign for check please at the flustered waitress by scribbling with an imaginary pen in the air, quickly followed by the universal sign for hurry the fuck up. She is relieved there wasn't any whistling and snapping of fingers at least.

"Please locate your chill and secure it, April," Meg sighs as she clocks her fingers nervously drumming the table between them.

She can't help it, her hand moves of its own accord, radiating and pulsating, powered by the dynamo of conflict spinning in her head. Finally Meg snaps, puts her hand over the jittery limb and forces it to be still.

"I'll keep the journalist in check," Meg promises, holding on to her hand for longer than absolutely necessary, longer than her limited compassion should allow. "Alex will call you with the details."

"Jeez, someone needs to get laid," Meg mutters under her breath, patting her hand before releasing it and getting up to leave.

* * *

><p>The LA traffic is particularly bad this morning, despite her getting up at the crack of dawn to beat it on the way out of the city they are moving at an excruciatingly slow speed. The mood in Jackson's giant Range Rover is subdued, both of them too tired for polite conversation, especially since they will have to put on a show for the rest of the day if they ever make it to Palm Springs. The only one who seems awake and excited is Alex, who is happily chatting away from the back seat, fawning over the stylist and photographer hired by the record label, listing off impressive credentials and name dropping furiously. The chatter is addressed at her, but his whole body is turned towards Jackson, eagerly leaning over his seat and batting his lashes at the back of his shaved head. Alex seems oblivious to the uninvolved grunts and muffled monosyllabic responses he gets, relentlessly fangirling over the amazingness that's about to unfold on her. In the driver's seat next to her Jackson is stifling a smirk.<p>

Three hours of Alex's inane wittering later they finally arrive at the beautiful Hacienda serving as the location for the shoot. She is briskly swept away by Meg and into the hands of the waiting team of hairdressers, makeup artists and stylists, complete with their own harassed assistants. She is primped and preened, prodded and poufed, made up and done up beyond recognition. Once they're done with her Meg shoos them away for what is presumably going to be a much needed pep talk.

"The journalist from the magazine just arrived," Meg warns quietly, calmly. "He'll ask you some questions between shots, ok?"

The way Meg is suddenly treating her like a precious china doll is exactly why she can handle being treated like a punching bag at almost any other time. Where the media is involved, Meg has her back, she will fight for her and fiercely protect her like a lioness watching over her young.

"I don't want to answer any questions about Baz," she mutters, still feeling raw and exposed eighteen months after the fact.

"Alex is outside briefing the journalist about that right now," Meg reassures her, easing at least one or two knots that have been forming in her stomach since this morning. "And I'll be there the whole time."

"And Jackson?" she asks, suddenly aware that convincing a questioning journalist might be tougher than holding hands for some photographs.

"Keep it general," Meg advices, as she shuffles her towards the stylist and the waiting rack of clothing. "You don't have to answer too many questions, just throw him a bone, say you've never met anyone like him or something. Half truths are just fine."

Ten minutes later she steps out into the blazing heat utterly uncomfortable in her own skin. The stylist has barely provided her with half an outfit, there are some skimpy bikini bottoms with mesh panels that are cut dangerously high on her ass, and a flimsy excuse for a shirt that is supposed to make up for all the gleaming white skin exposed below her waist, to keep it classy she supposes. But there is nothing classy about the outfit, the bikini bottoms are tiny, and the shirt is one sudden movement away from a serious nip slip situation.

"Alex!" she hisses as he excitedly skips over to her, gleefully taking in her revealing attire. "You didn't tell me it was a bikini shoot! I might have skipped the chocolate brownie last night had I known!"

"Ooh, April, you look amazing!" Alex gushes, batting away her hands as she tries to readjust the shirt to cover her modesty just a tad. "Come meet the crew. That journalist is a complete babe, by the way."

His eyes twinkle as he whispers the last words in her ear and push her towards a skinny, perfectly polished asian man seated in the cooling shade of a generous parasol. Alex enthusiastically introduces them before proceeding to introduce her to the photographer and the rest of the crew.

The photographer gives her a brief outline of what he wants, positions her where he needs her and barks orders at his numerous assistants. She is still uneasy about her appearance when the photographer moves closer and takes a few test shots.

"Are you going to shoot from that angle?" she practically squeaks as the photographer moves into position slightly behind her and dips low, camera pointed directly up at her ass.

"Don't worry about it," he brushes her off, taking a couple more shots from his new position. "Can I get some wind over here? Now!"

His assistants jump to action, setting up a wind machine that temporarily blinds her. Under the parasol a gaggle of people are gathered around a screen, scrutinising every detail of the few test shots she neither expected nor was prepared for. The low whispers and mutterings are impossible to decipher, but make her even more uncomfortable with her current state of undress.

"Eyes over your shoulder… look at me… open your mouth a little… chin up…not that much…" the photographer fires directions at her and she tries her best to look sexier, fresher, whatever that means. "Let's have some water please!"

"Oh, no, I really don't think I need to be…" a spray of ice cold water soaking her clothes and skin shuts down her flustered protest. A small army of hair and make up people rush over to give her hair and face the same treatment before running back out of shot.

"…wet" she sighs, finishing her own sentence to herself as she realises the water has made the flimsy shirt totally useless, as it's now clinging to her body like a second layer of skin. Of course, it's at this precise moment Jackson decides to emerge from the villa, eyebrows quickly rising above the rim of his sunglasses as he takes her in, before controlling them again and casually taking a seat a little away from the crowd around the monitor.

"We have a nipple situation!" Meg shouts over to the photographer after a few more shots, alerting everyone to what an ice cold shower will do to a woman.

"I know, I see them," the photographer hollers back, motioning for her to take away the hands that flew up automatically at Meg's warning. "I'll fix it in post."

She has to remind herself its just another performance, another show she has to get through. She imagines all the eyes that are on her aren't discussing every minute imperfection or blemish, but praising every curve, every bump. She wills herself to go through with this, to make this a successful day, convinces herself that it's a necessary evil, a part of the game. _This is the fucking job._

* * *

><p>She is afforded some dignity back in the shape of a big fluffy robe as the photographer reconfigures for the next shot and the hair and makeup team are set to work again. The journalist is ushered to her side as work carries on around them, Meg reassuringly seating herself on the other side of the journalist. Jackson ambles over and sits down next to her, his hand finding hers. For once it comforts her, this simple gesture, even though it's also a strategic move. He is her defence against uncomfortable questions, against dropping record sales and dissatisfied record labels. It's strategic, but it's also supportive.<p>

Jimmy the journalist asks her a few straightforward questions about career related stuff, about worrying record sales and cancelled tours, which she deflects nicely while Meg scowls menacingly at him. He gives her opportunity to plug her upcoming album and she gives him the spiel about a fresh new sound and exciting collaborators Meg prepared for her, which elicits somewhat of a smile from her manager. Jimmy asks about her American Idol experience and how it has prepared her for the music business, and she tells him it was an unforgettable experience that has taught her a lot, which is a full truth, though perhaps one with many omissions.

"So, the word on everyone's lips at the moment is Japril, of course," Jimmy blathers, flapping his hands in the air to underline his enthusiasm. "How did you guys meet?"

Panic seizes her momentarily; they really should have come up with an answer to that by now. The makeup artist saves her at the last minute, choosing that exact moment to turn her head slightly to apply lip colour. She widens her eyes at Jackson, urging him to come up with something.

"We met through mutual friends," he lies smoothly, almost without missing a beat. He adds a little sparkle to pacify Jimmy, which works like a charm. Jimmy is eagerly nodding his head though there is no more to the story than that, practically levitating in his seat trying to get closer to Jackson.

"You two seem really close," Jimmy continues, now directing his questions to Jackson rather than her, prompting Meg to noisily clear her throat. She can't decide whether to be more offended that he is shamelessly flirting with her supposed boyfriend or that he's completely forgot he's supposed to be interviewing her. "You must really be in love?"

"We're friends first, you know?" she answers; sensing Meg wants her to take charge. "I think that's really important. He's got my back, and I've got his, and that's all there is to it."

She instinctively turns towards Jackson as she talks about him, accidentally meeting his eyes and faltering slightly as she sees his bewildered expression.

"I've never met anyone like him," she barely manages, fighting the gravity his eyes hold over hers. "Aside from that I don't think anybody needs to know anything more. The rest is between us."

She can still feel his eyes on her as she turns towards Jimmy again, Meg signalling a thumbs up behind the journalist's head. Jimmy's eyes flicker between her and Jackson, thin smile on his lips.

"Well, that's sweet," he smirks, suddenly less friendly, less enthused. The journalist in him awakens, his tone now acerbic and unforgiving. "It's nice to see you on your feet again after Baz left you in such a humiliating way."

"Jimmy, you fucking prime twat!" Meg shouts, slapping Jimmy's arm fiercely. "That topic is off limits, as you're well fucking aware!"

In the heat of the moment, Jackson's hand has found its way to her arm, silently soothing and emboldening her. She takes a deep and laboured breath, before lifting her chin and facing Jimmy dead on.

"Meg, it's fine," she interjects, voice steady and clear. "Mud-slinging isn't my style. I don't want to be one of those ex-couples who hate each other. It's history, he's moved on, I've moved on. It's done."

"It must have affected you deeply though?" Jimmy probes, moving out of reach from Meg's powerful fists and looming stare. "You basically ducked out of the public eye for months after the split?"

She takes another deep breath and sets her jaw in firm lines. This day has already been trying, she can manage this too.

"I basically refused to talk about the emotional fallout," she says candidly, vaguely aware that everyone around her is holding their breaths. "Even with my closest friends and family, the topic was out of bounds. They never dared ask me about it, they were just expecting me to break at the mere mention of it. Plus, nobody really knew what to say."

Around her the whole set has got eerily quiet, apart from the photographer who is still shouting at his poor assistants somewhere in the background.

"I practically had a quarter life crisis," she laughs to herself, letting her shoulders down and shaking her head slightly. "Everywhere you go, your brain goes with you. That becomes the hardest thing after a while."

Meg looks frazzled, like she's just been through a super stressful event, like she's had to spend a whole two hours looking after babies on her own. Even Jimmy is dumbstruck, clearly having got far more than he bargained for. A small squeeze on her arm reminds her that Jackson is still there, having just been exposed to some of her most private and personal thoughts. She can barely turn to face him, but then remembers that everyone here has had prime exposure to her erect nipples already, so there's really no sense in being bashful now.

She can virtually feel a collective sigh of relief as the photographer announces he is ready for her again and she is ushered away to slip into another minuscule outfit.

* * *

><p>The sun is about to set, signalling that the shoot is about to conclude. Around her assistants are working at double speed to set the lights for the final shot before they lose the daylight. The photographer directs her into the pool, the majestic mountains behind her creating a spectacular backdrop. He jumps into the pool with her, fully clothed, camera ready and loaded, but after a quick deliberation behind the lens he's unhappy with something, waving the stylist over.<p>

"Can we lose the necklace, please?" he asks the stylist, nodding towards the small gold cross and chain she always wears around her neck. It was a present from her mother the day she left home to go on American Idol, to serve as a reminder to never forget her family or where she came from. She never takes it off, not even for photo shoots, but the photographer is stressing about the disappearing light and the stylist has already got her hands on the clasp.

"Please be careful with it!" she pleads, as the stylist almost drops it into the pool.

"Here, I'll take it," Jackson suddenly volunteers, rushing over and rescuing the necklace from the stylist's slippery hands. "I'll make sure it's safe, ok?"

She flashes him a grateful smile before returning her attentions to the camera. The photographer gets to work, commanding her to rearrange her face and her body in seductive poses, occasionally shouting out compliments to let her know when she's got it right. After a while he reappears from behind the lens, still not satisfied.

"April, can you remove your bikini top, please?" he barks, signalling for the stylist to jump in and remove her last shred of dignity. "It just doesn't look right."

She casts a panicked look over to the monitor where the rest of the crew is gathered, everyone nodding to each other agreeing that this particular item of clothing looks practically offensive on her. For once, Meg is nowhere to be seen.

"I'm really not comfortable with this…" she tries, first pleading with the photographer who seems entirely unaffected. She then tries her luck with the stylist, who is already working on the strings around her neck.

"Alex!" she yelps, desperately clinging on to the top the stylist is attempting to coax her out of. Unfortunately, Alex is out of earshot, too preoccupied flirting with Jimmy the journalist, writing his number on Jimmy's arm with a sharpie and giggling, old school style.

"You don't have to do that," Jackson comes to her rescue yet again, warning off the stylist with a heavy hand on her shoulder.

"It's fine, April," the photographer interjects, impatiently surveying the light conditions. "You won't be able to see anything in print, it's not that kind of magazine."

"She doesn't have to do anything she feels uncomfortable with," Jackson barks at the photographer, with such severity that everyone on set turn to stare at him. "Alex! Where the fuck is Meg?"

"This is none of your business," the photographer bites back, glaring at Jackson. "Come on, we're losing light!"

Stuck between Jackson and the photographer, the stylist quickly decides which side she'd rather be on, tugs hard at the bikini top and manages to snatch it away from her. She barely manages to cover herself up using her arms, ducking further below the surface to hide her chest. The photographer, pleased with how things worked out, carries on shooting whilst Jackson flashes her a look of disbelief before chasing after the stylist to reclaim the top.

She tries her best to keep her composure as the tension on the set grows, hoping the sun ducks behind those mountains sharpish. To add to the chaos Meg reappears from the villa, effing and blinding at everyone as Alex brings her up to speed. It takes a few seconds for them to notice the approaching whirr of mechanical blades, the noise level is already deafening. Soon the engine roar engulfs all the loud voices, hovering over them like a thundercloud. She looks up and sees someone hanging out of the side of the helicopter, the long lens of a camera pointed directly at her.

She is frozen in her spot, still wrapping her arms around her chest, still attempting to cover herself. Around her the set suddenly explodes in a flurry of activity, she thinks she can hear Megs voice shout _"paps!" _but the rumble of the chopper drowns out most other sounds, disorientating her. She feels hands grabbing her, ripping her out of the pool, a big white towel covering her and strong arms whisking her into the obscurity of the villa.

"Holy shit!" Jackson pants after depositing her on the sofa, spying through the windows up at the helicopter. "What the fuck just happened?"

* * *

><p>"This is a total clusterfuck!"<p>

Megs voice is hoarse, tired from straining, spent. For the past half an hour she has attempted to get to the bottom of who tipped off the paparazzi and she hasn't been polite about it. Exclusivity and the fat pay check that goes along with it is at stake, but she understands that none of the people in the room stand to lose money, merely reputation. Looking at their tormented faces as Meg unleashes another barrage of insults at them, she can't blame them for trying to make an extra buck. The photographer is the only one at risk of losing money too, Meg has already cleared him. He's just as seething as she is, insisting that they all stay the night so they can reshoot the last photo in the sunrise instead.

She slips out just as Meg lunges at a blubbering Alex, sneaking off to escape the drama. She spots Jackson sitting in the dark on a sun lounger by the pool, debates whether or not to join him as Meg's voice once again pierces the night sky as a door is opened and closed behind her.

"If you have to cry, go outside! For fuck's sake!"

She chuckles softly as Jackson becomes aware of her, sliding into the sun lounger next to him.

"What a mess," he sighs, eyes glittering with amusement.

"I know, what a crazy day," she smiles, leaning back and letting the intensity of the days events sink in.

With the doors to the villa shut the place is tranquil, stunningly beautiful; she'd been too wound up to notice earlier. The night is clear and cool, the heat of the day having already left the surrounding desert landscape, stars faintly twinkling in the sky above, nighttime creatures chirping and whirring constantly in the background. They sit together, enjoying the brittle silence.

"Thanks for sticking up for me today," she eventually says, not wanting his kindness to go unmentioned. "You didn't have to do that, but I really appreciate that you did."

"That guy is an asshole," he sighs, shaking his head. "Someone needed to say something."

"It should have been me," she admonishes herself, letting her eyes fall to her hands. "You know, I wasn't prepared for any of this when I signed up for that competition. I had to get used to not being in control of my life very quickly. There was this mould that had been created for me that I just had to fit into, no matter what."

He nods sadly at her, sympathy, or perhaps understanding flashes over his face for a moment.

"I thought it was all about singing, which in hindsight was seriously naive, but at first I really believed that," she continues, feeling surprisingly comfortable opening up to him. He already knows her worst. "But you learn really fast that you are a product, you're public property and there are all these compulsory requirements to fulfil. Suddenly it's not about you and your thoughts and feelings, you're just an object, a commercial quantity designed to provoke a certain public response. It's a shock to discover how little say you have in your own life."

"Yeah, I get that," he mumbles, eyebrows drawn together in a frown, processing her words.

"Enough about me," she hurries to say, worried that she is boring him. "What about you? Who are you when no-one's watching?"

"I don't know," he replies, stroking his head absentmindedly. "Someone's always watching, that's the problem."

"You're going to have to help me out here," she chides, not sure if he's avoiding the topic or genuinely confused about who he really is. "You know everything about me, but I barely know a thing about you."

"Oh," he realises, eyes full of apology when they find hers. "Well, we're not so different I guess. My family has money, a lot of it, and I was always supposed to follow this path that was laid out for me, every step along the way was just another box to tick off. No-one ever asked me what I wanted to do or bothered to find out what I might be good at, I was just expected to toe the mark."

"But?" she prompts, holding her breath in case he decides to withdraw.

"But I didn't want to fall in line," he exhales; frown back on his face as if the admission pains him. "I wanted to stand on my own feet, do something for myself."

She nods, understands. They really aren't so different after all.

"Problem is," he continues, inhaling deeply. "When you've only been envisioned one particular path all your life, finding out what you really want to do isn't all that easy."

She studies him silently for a moment, sees the struggle that is still going on behind that frown, sees him trying to figure himself out.

"And the women? The reputation?" she probes, hoping she's not pushing him too far.

"Woman," he corrects her. He's not annoyed that she's asking, not offended in any way, if anything he seems relieved that someone has bothered to ask him directly so he can clarify. "There was never a string of women, there was just one. Ava. I guess you've heard of her."

Of course she has heard of Ava, everyone's heard of Ava. Ava Hart is his most famous ex, his only A-list ex, his most stunning ex, the name rings more than a few bells. She nods briefly, taking great care to seem indifferent.

"Ava was a big part of my life for a while," he admits, without any regret in his voice. "But she was really into playing the game, being seen with the right people, at the right places, that whole thing. It got very boring after a while."

"So that's why you're so comfortable with all this?" she exclaims, a piece of the puzzle falling into place. "That's how you know all the tricks?"

She feels jubilant that she's managed to figure him out, even just a little.

"Yeah, she opened my eyes to a lot of things," he shrugs, closing the book on his relationship with Ava Hart. "But the other women were innocent bystanders, either friends caught in the paparazzi crossfire or random acquaintances in the wrong place at the wrong time. I got written about a lot after Ava, but ninety-nine percent of the reports were false. There is no string of broken hearts or notches on my bedpost."

Her mouth is dry, her palms sweaty. She's humbled by his honesty, ashamed that she believed the rumours and judged him so harshly. She casts her eyes down as he repeats her words back to her.

"I'm sorry," she says simply, forcing her hand to move across and squeeze his. "I should have given you the benefit of a doubt."

"We all have things we don't talk about, right?" he grimaces, shifting uncomfortably in his sun lounger.

"Right," she concedes, awkwardly letting go of his hand.

Silence falls between them again, but this time it's not a comfortable silence. She's about to get up and leave when he suddenly speaks again.

"You did really well with that journalist today," he smiles briefly, eyes gleaming softly. "I was impressed. Some of those questions were tough."

She shrugs her shoulders, not wanting to dip into that topic again.

"That breakup must have really stung," he continues, voice soft and careful. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

"I hate that he was my first taste of love," she admits, exhaling painfully and staggered. "My first everything."

Their disappointments and heartache hangs between them like a thick cloud, the rawness of admissions and revelations leaving them slightly guarded, slightly fearful of each other. It's been a long time since she openly confessed her innermost thoughts and feelings to anyone, shutting off that part of her has become second nature. She gets the impression he's not used to such candour either, eyelashes blinking away any sign of weakness he might have exposed.

"I'm glad we're friends," she says sincerely, but without meeting his eyes. She swiftly gets up from the sun lounger and heads for the villa.

"Wait," he stops her, following a few steps behind. "Your necklace."

He pulls her gold chain out of his pocket, the cross catching the light from inside his palm.

"Thank you," she whispers, the lump in her throat too big for her voice to come out any louder.

"Let me," he mumbles, motioning for her to turn around.

He carefully places the necklace back around her neck while she holds her hair to the side. The clasp clicks shut and as she lets down her hair his fingers brush against the bare skin on the back of her neck. She gives him a last glance over her shoulder before heading back inside, the skin on her neck protesting into goose bumps, her body reacting to him to spite her brain.


	4. FightClub

**A/N: So sorry for the lengthy break between updates, work has been insane and this was a bit of a beast of a chapter to write. **

**Thank you guys so much for your amazing reviews, they keep me going and amplify my guilt when I don't manage to update for you;) Please keep them coming, you know I love to know your thoughts. **

**This chapter is especially for C, I hope I can manage to brighten your day even just a little:) xx**

* * *

><p>She's uncomfortable, he can tell. Her hands are never still for more than two seconds, constantly fingering her purse, brushing back her hair, tapping her fingers on the armrest. She's always like this now, has been for the past few weeks, whenever they go out in public together. It's not him, or at least he hopes it's not. Hopes they are past that, better aligned, more at ease with each other. He hopes it's her new look, the parade of tiny dresses, the high heels, the makeup that makes her look like a plastic version of herself. She grins and bears it, but he can see her constantly readjusting herself, pulling up her low cut necklines, pulling down her high cut hemlines.<p>

He reaches out a hand, places it over hers, which brings her back to herself. She gives him a small smile and takes a deep breath.

"I'm fine," she assures him, squeezing his hand in gratitude.

The car comes to a stop, flashbulbs already going off beyond the darkened windows, red carpet waiting. The doors are opened and they step out onto the floodlit stretch of pavement. It's routine for them now, physical contact is no longer forced, no longer so weighty. Their hands are familiar, the smiles come easy, they fall in to step together effortlessly, following the same rhythm, mirroring one another.

The wall of photographers is hungered, demanding their attention, screaming their names and towering over them like a swarm of angry wasps eager to get the best shot, to outdo each other. He's used to this, used to the aggression, the relentless calls for compliance, the harassment. She's less comfortable, leaning heavily on his arm, unsteady on her feet in heels so high she's only a few inches shorter than him. His instinct is to protect, to shield her from the harsh glare, from the angriest voices, to steady her through it, because she is his refuge from responsibility, his buffer against infamy, his counter to his mother's inquisitions. She is his partner, and his arms, his frame, are there to support.

"Over here!" a voice sounds through the sea of loud cries, and they obligingly move along, taking the lead from Indie who is there on their behalf, herding them through to the next congregation of starving reporters and photographers

April follows him closely, carefully balancing on her precarious sandals, almost falling to his side as they come to a stop. He slips his arm around her, resting his hand on her hip, propping her up. Her dress is so short his fingertips graze her bare skin just below the hem. She turns towards him as his fingers burn against her naked thigh, the dark pools of her eyes momentarily making his mouth dry up. He clears his throat quietly, shattering the current that is keeping his eyes glued on hers, and they move slightly apart, sizzling out, falling back into their roles as partners and accomplices. He keeps his hand on her waist, sparkly fabric keeping sensitive skin apart.

"April!" a shrill voice calls out, bringing him back to the present. There is still work to do, an image to uphold, a unity to present.

"Jax! To your left!" a faceless voice sounds, perpetuating the hated nickname Meg coined for him, which has taken hold, become his most referred to denominator besides the Japril moniker. To the media they are one entity, a single unit, undistinguishable from one another. It's a story meticulously crafted by Meg and Indie, helped along by constructed photo opportunities, well thought out quotes and expertly timed anonymous tips.

They pose, smile, touch, oblige a few reporters with some sound bites that will later become double-page spreads of how he or April has told all, revealing all their secrets, giving up the inside scoop. It's rehearsed, finely honed; every move they make, every response they give is deliberate and premeditated.

"She's amazing," he says, a go-to response to a standard question about April and what she means to him.

"We're taking it one day at a time," he answers another when asked about the future of their relationship, if there are any big announcements coming soon.

"He always looks hot!" April giggles to a reporter, resting a hand on his lapel and smiling up at him with a deliberate fluttering of her lashes.

"He's been an incredible support," he hears her say in another interview, referring to the question that always comes up.

Since her exclusive shoot and interview was published their story has been intrinsically linked with her previous relationship, he is how she overcome her heartache, her reason for happiness, her happy ending. Through these small soundbites they provide at various events their story has been about building a future, being madly in love, leaving the past behind. It's a story his mother can live with, a story the board and its investors are profoundly disinterested in, a story that he can find peace with.

Indie is about to wrap things up for them, ushering them away from the photographers and into the waiting movie premiere, but the in the mass of photographers there are a few who didn't get the shot they have been impatiently waiting for. The satisfied snappers come to a lull, amplifying the few loud voices still clamouring for their attention.

The mood turns uglier, more desperate, there is scattered booing, catcalls, yelling. It's not out of the ordinary, but it makes him edgy, testy, eager to get April inside and out of swiping distance.

The calls escalate the closer to the entrance they get, grown men calling out for April to show some more cleavage, show more affection, more anything. Indie hurries them on, turning salacious comments into insults. He ignores them calling her ugly, dismisses them calling her a nobody, but his blood curdles when one calls her _"a fucking annoying bitch." _April stays strong, like the weight on her shoulders is nothing, like gravity has no effect on her, but he can't. He turns on his heel, hands balling into fists, eyes glaring at the sea of cameras trying to locate the perpetrator.

"Don't," she pleads, grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to focus on her. "It's not worth it, I'm fine."

He keeps his fists clenched against his sides, lets the adrenalin wear off. He's been raised, almost solely, by a woman. A woman who takes shit from no man and imprinted in him from an early age never to stand it on her behalf. He has been bred on respect, reared on manners, bottle fed on politeness, and he finds it hard to swallow her assurances, to accept her acceptance.

"I'm fine," she insists, grabbing his hand and forcing him to undo his fist and twine his fingers around hers. "I don't want you to fight for me."

He relaxes his shoulders, and lets her steady herself against him again, leading her into the cinema. His other fist remains tightly closed into a fist throughout the movie. 

* * *

><p>He's the one that's uncomfortable when they go for dinner a few days later. He picked the restaurant, one of Ava's top spots back when he was dating her, but he can't shake the feeling of being on display. They are seated at a table on the outside patio, the only thing separating them from the pavement and the inevitable paparazzi is a white picket fence that isn't quite tall enough. People come here to be seen, which is exactly the point of him coming here with April too, but the vicious atmosphere from the other day is still fresh in his mind.<p>

"You're quiet today," she remarks, eyeing him carefully over the menu. "Is everything ok?"

"Yep, fine," he quickly glosses over, clamming up as he always does when things get too hard to explain.

He's not exactly sure why he feels so apprehensive, the situation is familiar, but something is off, something about him is off.

"How's the new album coming along?" he asks, eager to change the subject.

"Eh, it's ok," she sighs, slightly dejected. "I'm supposed to start recording next month, but all the songs they keep sending me are... Just wrong."

He nods his head slowly, eyes constantly flickering over his shoulder, his attention drawn to the street behind him, wary of any signs of approaching photographers.

"I mean, I'm really not into these arrangements that rely so heavily on tinny, synthetic drum machines or generic bass lines. And all the chords and melodies are so standard, you know? And some of the lyrics are so incredibly cheesy, I can barely read them out loud, let alone sing them."

He lets her ramble and vent, barely listening, acknowledging her occasionally with a nod or a mumbled agreement, his mind wandering back to their exposed position.

"To be honest I'd really like to write my own songs for once, maybe actually sing about something I care about, or perform songs I like myself. I just need to tell Meg to broach the subject with the record label, I mean things are going so well on the publicity side that maybe they could just give me a tiny break for once?"

"Mhm," he grunts, distracted by two large black SUVs across the road and a small group of paps gathered around them. His whole body is begging for him to get up and leave, for the dinner to be over, for the paparazzi not to notice them.

"Where's your mind today?" she asks quietly, reaching over and running her fingers lightly over his cheek, forcing him to focus on her.

"Hm?" he mumbles, struggling to look her in the eye as the sudden physical contact leaves a trail of tiny sparks from the back of his head to the base of his neck. "Sorry, I was miles away."

"I could see that," she sighs, eyes downcast, blinking a little to fast, teeth digging in to her bottom lip. "I know you're not into my music and that I'm probably boring you, but I just..."

Now she's got his full attention, her sudden drop in volume and hands wringing in her lap alerting him to his utter failure as dinner date, fake boyfriend and real friend and partner.

"I thought we were friends," she continues, voice shaky and unreliable. "And this is me, this is what I do, who I am. And you look like you'd rather be anywhere else but here."

He officially feels like a complete asshole, having sat opposite her wishing he was somewhere else while she was levelling with him about her passion, the dream she is still clinging on to. He reaches over and pulls apart her hands so he can put his fingers through hers; regretting, apologising, reassuring.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he rushes to say, eager to make amends, eager to comfort. "It's not you, honestly. We are friends."

It is her though, she is the reason he wants to leave. Not because her company is intolerable, but because he is so instinctively protective of her that he just wants her out of this situation, wants her safe and unharmed.

"You're my friend," he reiterates, trying to find her eyes so he can convince her he is being straight with her. "I just..."

He stops himself there, not ready to put words to feelings that he hasn't even fully formulated in his own head.

"I'm just an asshole," he finishes, because it's easier and still true.

She gives a short sigh, smiles slightly and accepts his feeble apology, because she's too sweet for her own good. For the rest of the dinner he doesn't turn his head back to the street once, hanging on to her every word as she sticks to lighter, more superficial topics throughout the evening.

When they're finally ready to leave, the small group of photographers has grown to a small crowd, all eagerly lifting their lenses as he stands up from his chair. He braces himself, visualising the short distance from the entrance to the valet parking area, calculating the seconds that it will take for them to reach the relative safety of his car. As he sees the valet bring his car around he grabs a firm hold of April's hand and descends onto the pavement.

The reaction is instant, dozens of black lenses close in on them, flashes lighting up the night sky and the sound of shutters clicking rapidly and voices shouting their names overpowers him. He pulls April along after him, but she's not fast on her feet in those high heels she's always being made to wear so the small tunnel that leads them to his car is swiftly closed off, making him swerve and dodge.

Their progress is slowed down as he struggles to see a clear path through the swarm of bodies and equipment, one darkly dressed shooter seizing the opportunity, crouching over and aiming his lens directly up under April's minuscule skirt and into her crotch.

"Hey!" he barks at the photographer, trying to wave him off with one hand while April desperately tries to pull down her skirt.

The photographer merely laughs and points his camera directly in his face instead, capturing his no doubt angry facial expressions and waving arm. He gives up and turns to continue the struggle back to his car, but the photographer follows closely, shoving his camera directly in his face, bumping up against him as the crowd closes in on them.

"Give us some room, please," he hears her plead behind him, voice small in contrast to the shouts and booming voices of the paparazzi.

The crowd pushes and shoves, pulsing and heaving with frenzied attempts to get the best possible shot. Just as he reaches the door of his car and opens it to let April in, the aggressive photographer in black jams into his arm, making him slam the car door shut, narrowly missing April's fingers.

He reacts on blind impulse, using his elbow to shove the man away hard, pushing him into a crowd of other photographers. He runs on pure instinct as he hurries April into the passenger seat, fuelled by adrenaline as he wrestles past the throng of paps who can now smell blood. He finally reaches the drivers seat and slowly pulls away from the kerb, careful to not run over anyone but desperate to escape the glare of the flash bulbs.

"Are you ok?" he pants, out of breath not because of physical exhaustion but from his stress levels soaring.

"Yeah," she nods, equally breathless, equally rattled.

"Fuck!" he exclaims, slamming his hands against the steering wheel as it sinks in what sort of photo opportunities he's just given away for free.

"Oh shit," she sighs as she catches up with him, as she too visualises potential headlines and problematic hashtags.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, beating himself up for not following his instincts and getting out of there sooner.

"Sorry?" she cuts him off, voice suddenly fierce and determined. "You don't have anything to apologise for, you basically saved me from an angry mob and defended my honour, I should be thanking you!"

"No, April," he says, nodding to the rearview mirror. "I'm sorry, but I can't take you to your apartment right now. We're being followed."

The two black SUVs that were parked up outside the restaurant all night are now following closely behind them, jumping red lights to stay on their tail. He's kicked the hornet's nest, his aggressive behaviour has no doubt brought on this escalated response. These photographers are not after a few cute candids of a loved up couple the tabloids can spin endless regurgitated stories about, these ones are after a reaction, a slip up, they are after blood. 

* * *

><p>She's hesitant as he leads her through the front door of his apartment, like she's entering unchartered territory, as if seeing where he lives will reveal too much about him. Her eyes are wide and roving as he points out the amenities, but she keeps her hands politely folded in front of her as if she is on a guided tour around a museum.<p>

"Sorry about this," he apologises for the tenth time, recognising this is isn't part of the deal, that it's a departure from their new normal. "There's three bedrooms and two bathrooms, so there's plenty of privacy. Help yourself to whatever you can find in the kitchen, and just... make yourself at home I guess."

She looks anything other than at home, awkwardly moving to the middle of the room, careful not to touch anything. He slumps into a soft chair and kicks off his sneakers, expecting her to follow suit, but she stays where she is, hands still folded, shifting her weight from one leg to another.

"Sit down, April," he begs her, taking her out of her misery.

"Your apartment is different from how I imagined it," she finally says, still taking in the surroundings, perching on the edge of the sofa, her back straight and tense.

"Different how?" He searches her face for disapproval, quickly assessing the big open plan living space, the modern kitchen, the wall almost made entirely out of glass and the roof terrace beyond, trying to pinpoint any obvious pitfalls.

"Less slick, I guess," she ponders, eyes roaming over pale wood and soft grey colours. "Less obvious. Warmer."

Her analysis of his living room sounds less like a comment on interior design and more like a pre-conceived notion of how Jackson Avery the notorious womaniser would live.

"Were you expecting a waterbed and a mirrored ceiling?" he asks, unable to keep disappointment out of his voice.

Her cheeks turn red as she shakes her head vigorously in denial, spluttering out an apology.

"Please try and relax," he sighs, her obvious discomfort making him feel even more guilty about putting her in this position. "It's better if we don't create any more photo opportunities tonight. I'll take you home in the morning, please just chill out, ok?"

"I know, you're right," she exhales, slumping her shoulders and relaxing her spine. "And what I meant to say, is that your apartment is really nice."

Her cheeks dimple when she smiles, he hasn't noticed before. One long, soft crevice on either side of her mouth, appearing only when she angles her face a certain way.

"Thank you," he accepts sincerely, brushing aside his earlier disappointment and deciding not to let it bruise his ego. "Can I get you anything, a drink or whatever?"

"Um, do you think I could borrow some clothes maybe," she asks hesitantly, after a long pause. "This outfit's not really that comfortable."

She motions towards her sequinned miniskirt and backless top, the kind of getup he's gotten used to seeing her in, and gotten used to see her struggle to feel easy in. She admittedly looks great whenever they step out together, but her outfits are a front, just like their relationship, a part of her role, the flashy outer package that reveals very little about what's inside.

He fetches her a t-shirt and some shorts and shows her to one of the spare bedrooms to get changed. In the meantime he opens the doors to the roof terrace and leans over the railings slightly. On the street below the two black SUVs are still parked up, but thankfully they're too far up and too protected by darkness for anyone to spot him.

When he comes back inside April is scanning his fridge for contents, returning triumphantly with a couple of beers.

"Is this ok?" she asks, much more relaxed, slightly dwarfed by his clothes but infinitely happier.

He nods and slides up to the breakfast bar next to her, accepting one of the bottles. He watches as she takes a big gulp, throwing her head back, her bouncy red curls tumbling down and covering his washed out t-shirt.

"Why do you take it?" His question confuses her, unsettles her for a moment. She puts down her bottle and looks at him, eyebrows meeting on her forehead as she struggles to come up with an answer.

"People controlling every aspect of your life, I mean," he clarifies, but she still looks perplexed. "I see how much you hate it, the clothes, the music, even this relationship, so why do you take it?"

"I take it because I have to," she finally says, but she doesn't look sad about it, just accepting. That unfathomable acceptance she always exudes, the nothing-can-shake-her attitude that he just doesn't comprehend. "I owe the record label an insane amount of money, I have to play along, I have to trust they know better than me when it comes to this industry."

She's an optimist he realises, she believes in the best in people, she believes in a positive outcome no matter what. It clashes with his realist attitude, his belief that things can and do go wrong all the time, despite your best efforts, like they did tonight.

"And I don't hate it," she continues, taking another big sip from the bottle. "Maybe I hate the clothes a little bit. But I don't hate everything else, it's just not how I imagined it."

"What did you imagine?" He swallows down a big gulp of beer, letting the cool liquid dampen the hot fire building in his gut. He is not what she imagined for herself, he knows, and she isn't what he imagined for himself either, but it still stings a little to hear her admit it.

"I don't know, it's stupid small-town stuff," she says, turning her attention to the bottle on the counter in front of her, picking at the edges of the paper label, avoiding his gaze. "I grew up believing that people didn't drink until they turned 21 and that couples waited to have sex until marriage and that people didn't do drugs, that your friends would always be there for you and as long as you did everything you were supposed to then things would turn out ok. I guess I always thought I'd end up marrying my soulmate, that I would end up marrying the guy I lost my virginity to, that everyone I ever said 'I love you' to would say it back."

She deposits the tiny shreds of paper from the beer bottle on the countertop, before taking a final slug, emptying the bottle. He retrieves another round for both of them from the fridge, slightly taken aback by her candour.

"I'm from a really small town, don't judge me!" she yelps as he hands her another beer.

"I'm not judging you," he assures her, and he's not, it's not like his life is anything like he imagined it. "When I was 15 I couldn't wait to grow up, to make my own decisions, to do whatever I wanted. But the reality is I still don't know what I want."

"Isn't this what you wanted?" she asks, gesturing towards the city lights beyond his roof terrace. "Bright lights, big city, fame and fortune etcetera?"

"I don't really do anything though," he laughs exasperatedly. He never admitted it, even to himself, but he has no purpose here, no direction. "I'm not famous for anything. I'm only here so I don't have to be over there, in Boston."

She doesn't say anything, lets him stew on his own revelation, lets him clutch his beer bottle between clenched fists in silence.

"No one ever pictured any other future for me than going into the family business, to become a surgeon, to become a brilliant heir to someone else's life work. It was so set in stone that it never even occurred to me to imagine a different future for myself."

He keeps his eyes staring straight ahead, avoids hers which he knows will be searching him for more, but it's too hard to be this straight talking and straight faced at the same time, when her eyes are on him.

"What changed?" she probes carefully, perhaps aware that she is afforded a rare moment of disclosure and that pushing him would break the spell. "Why did you come here?"

"My dad," he sighs after a little while, opening a can of worms he never discusses with anyone. "I didn't want to be like him. I didn't want to commit myself to the foundation, get sucked into it and then wake up ten years later so miserable that I could see no other way out than to walk out on my wife and kids."

He's surprised by his openness towards her, surprised at the words falling out of him, which he could never define in his own mind.

"You would never do that," she tries to reassure, but it's futile, she doesn't know him well enough to say that with any conviction. He can't trust her because she's an optimist; she only wants to see the good.

"I can't trust that, April," he sighs, taking a swig from his bottle. He's a realist, he knows people do bad things even if they have the best intentions, he knows his father wasn't a bad man until he was. "I am my father's son after all."

"Has it ever occurred to you that you're also your mother's son?" she retorts, placing a small hand on his arm, forcing him to face her. "You're also someone who stays when things get tough, someone who sees things through, someone whose first instinct is to protect. You'll never be like him."

Her face is determined, but not blindly adoring. She is not seeing only the good, she sees him like he can't see himself, and it is humbling.

He lets her words sink in, lets her eyes hold his, lets her find more. They both fall silent, caught up in a wordless exchange, a blurring of lines. This was never part of the deal, it's a departure, sitting here locked in a stare that neither of them want to or can break off. It was always going to be a precarious arrangement bringing her to his apartment and giving her his clothes to wear, but he doesn't want to prove any clichés right or play into his own reputation. He has to break it off before he breaks, before it's too late to back down.

"Em, thanks," he mumbles, tearing himself away, finishing his beer. "Getting late, I suppose."

It actually is getting late, but he hadn't noticed or cared until he needed the excuse.

"Right," she smiles, sliding down from the bar stool. "Good night, Jackson. Thanks for today."

She comes over, stands on her tiptoes and kisses him lightly on the cheek before disappearing down the hallway towards the guest room. His cheek burns like she branded him with her lips as he struggles to get to sleep that night.

* * *

><p>He wakes up late the following morning, slightly disorientated by the muffled noises coming from the kitchen, before he comes back to himself and remembers that April is in his apartment. He throws on some shorts and heads toward the noises, where April is busy rummaging through cupboards. Dressed in a white robe she must have found in the bathroom she seems frustrated with the lack of kitchen essentials in his gleaming, modern kitchen.<p>

"Can I help you, or…?" he smiles as she mutters a few choice expletives under her breath as she comes up empty.

"Oh, morning!" she beams, whipping her head around as she notices him, her hair bundled into a bun on top of her head. "Have you got a coffee maker somewhere?"

"Somewhere I think." He is suddenly aware that he neglected to put a top on, feeling April's gaze on him and her subsequent embarrassment, but he moves into the kitchen next to her with confidence, determined to not let things get awkward between them again. "I normally just buy my coffee in the morning."

"Every morning?" She sounds incredulous, like it's the biggest extravagance in the world to outsource your coffee making.

He shrugs, throwing her a smirk as he retrieves a brand new coffee maker from the top shelf of the cupboard, still packaged in its box.

She shakes her head, making the bun on top of her head wobble indignantly. After another lengthy search for some actual coffee she finally gets to work. He watches as she fusses around the kitchen, looking for mugs and spoons and god knows what else. He doesn't want to tell her there is a coffee shop just in front of his building, partly because he doesn't want her shooting daggers at him, partly because he enjoys watching her move around his kitchen as if it were hers.

He's yanked out of his thoughts by the shrill sound of the buzzer. He rarely has any visitors, especially not in the middle of the day, and approaches the front door with trepidation. And rightfully so, because behind the door is his mother.

"Mom!" He smiles, but he already knows that an unannounced visit like this never means she just wants to check in on him and he knows the smile will fade as soon as she reveals the real purpose of her visit. "I didn't know you were coming into town?"

"Baby!" she gushes, grabbing his face with both hands and planting a big kiss on his cheek, no doubt leaving a lipstick mark. She clutches his face a little too tight, her gushing voice somehow filled with sarcasm. "Neither did I, but here we are anyway."

His mother steps in to his flat and notices his houseguest in a nanosecond. Her eyes narrow, flickering between April and him, between his bare chest and her fluffy, white robe. She raises her eyebrow to him in a question, and she doesn't have to say anything for him to know she is not entirely pleased with what she sees.

"Mother, this is April," he tries, ignoring her unspoken question. He can't have a conversation he can't even have with himself with his mother.

The two women shake hands and exchange smiles, one uncertain and nervous, the other overly certain and judging.

"Nice to finally meet the love of my son's life," his mother says, voice overbearing and stilted. "Or at least that's what the papers tell me."

"Coffee, Mrs Avery?" April tries her best, but he knows his mother and she is in no mood for perkiness or polite conversation.

"No thank you dear, I got one from the coffee shop across the road." His mother smiles, but her eyes are already cold, preparing for battle. "And it's _Dr_ Avery."

He can see April's face falling, her smile faltering, but before he can intervene, his mother turns her attentions towards him.

"Well, I suppose it's only fitting that you're both here," she starts, voice noticeably tighter, more clipped. "I cannot tell you how disappointed I was when I opened my email this morning."

The disappointment is already evident in her tone of voice, her jaw set in hard lines, her eyes unflinching and accusing. His heart sinks along with his head, he knows he slipped up last night and he can only imagine the headlines that have prompted a personal visit from his mother.

"Oh, crap," April exclaims from behind the kitchen counter, quickly covering her mouth and flashing his mother an apologetic glance. She holds up her phone, motioning for him to survey the damage with his own eyes.

And there it is, in an email from Meg, the subject line filled with expletives and exclamation marks, in all caps; numerous photos of his arms flailing, his enraged face, the photographer's falling body, a cracked camera lens he has no recollection of ever seeing. A blood smeared face and allegations of a broken nose he knows for sure he didn't cause adds a final devastating touch. The headlines sum up what his mother and the rest of the world now thinks of him; he's having meltdown, he's hitting back, he's out of control, he's hit rock bottom. There are several problematic hashtags and it's barely noon.

"Fighting photographers?" his mother carries on, following him into the kitchen. "Jackson Avery, who raised you while I wasn't looking?"

"Mom, it looks worse than it is," he tries, but he already knows it's less about the actual events and more about the story that is now doing the rounds.

"How it looks is entirely the problem," she snaps, her voice calm but growing louder with each syllable. "What the hell were you thinking!?"

He tries to find the right words, words that will calm his mother, words that will still leave his balls intact, words that will not make April think less of him.

"I had to try and get April into the car…" he starts, but his mother is gearing up for a reprimand and cuts him off.

"Of all the irresponsible things you have done, this is by far the worst. You know how this works, you know what effect your thoughtless actions have on the foundation. You say you're ready to take responsibility for this, but I don't see it. All I see is the same thing I've seen for years, an immature, careless _boy_ who can't look beyond the end of his own nose to see the consequences of his own actions."

Her eyes gleam with anger, nostrils flaring and mouth set into a thin, hard line. Dr Catherine Avery takes shit from no man, including her son, and she always knows exactly which buttons to push to maximise his guilt.

"Enough!" He barely recognises April's voice, sharp and full, reverberating with a bass that he's never heard before. "We got caught in a bad situation and Jackson did his best to get us out of it. He never hit anyone and all he's guilty of is trying to protect me. We all know we're walking a fine line here, the people that fight to get the best Japril photos are the same people that will taunt and push to get a juicy story. They want a show, and as much as we try to control it, we can't. This will blow over and it will be forgotten, and in the meantime you should be less concerned with what the press says and more concerned that your son acted exactly as he should. You did raise him right, you raised him to be a good man, and that's exactly what he was last night."

His mother lets out a small huff, completely taken aback by April's sudden diatribe, but she doesn't say anything, processing her words, momentary speechless. He's stunned himself, people don't speak to his mother in that way, it's never happened, he's never witnessed anything like it. He looks at her, mouth slightly agape, her eyes suddenly less certain, flickering between him and his mother. The silence between the three of them extends as they adjust to the new dynamic, to the shifting of power.

"Well," his mother finally says, voice softer, a little hesitant. "You two better come up with something grand to shift attentions away from this fight club mess."

He's never seen his mother back down from a fight and can't help smiling a little to himself. He's impressed that April handled her so efficiently, impressed that she came to his defence in the first place.

He leads his mother to the door, still reeling from the unexpected support. She kisses his cheek again, more reconciliatory this time.

"I don't know what's going on here," she says quietly so April won't hear, eyes wide and searching his. "But please be careful. Don't complicate things."

It's already too late for her parting warning, it's already complicated. They call themselves a couple, do almost all the things couples do but they still aren't. They are friends, but keep pushing the boundaries of platonic friendship. They are more than friends but less than a couple, and things could hardly get any more complicated.


End file.
